I scheduled a trip to Europe in March knowing that I would be juggling an online course, my day job and play. Which by the way I outlined very strategically on a spreadsheet/calendar and presented it to my friend who I was going to be traveling with. She laughed at first, and then sort of just went along to see how it would all pan out.
First week, I scheduled a drive to Stratford-Upon-Avon from her town in Suffix, with a day trip from Stratford to Bath and another to The Cotswolds. Notes upon notes were jotted down by yours truly, and photographs taken for novel four, which I have been loosely working on. Meaning to clarify, the outline is complete (fourth outline), the protagonist(s) developed, and the story chapters 1-3 are in first draft. All of which happened on a cold stormy night in Stratford.
The second week, we took the Eurostar from London to Paris and there I walked the streets of my favorite city observing human behavior. Oddly or funny enough, the makings of novel five happened there. How does that happen?
Back to England, and more day trips from my friend’s place to nearby towns, and although everything I’ve seen is amazing, memorable, heartwarming, lovely, charming, and potentially a good spot, non has inspired me enough to consider it the perfect location for my next story. Have you ever felt that way?
In a few days I will be heading up to Scotland, to work through the kinks in book 3 and then back home and by then I hope I would settle on a location. In the meantime I am obsessed with this photograph I took in a Museum in Paris